


eight times Rip Hunter is kissed...

by dvntldr



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Established Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Light Angst, Multi, Porn With Plot, Protective Sara Lance, Rip Hunter Needs a Hug, Rip Hunter-centric, Rip is kind of a slut, RipFic, Shameless Smut, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-16 00:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21499141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvntldr/pseuds/dvntldr
Summary: ...and one time they all find out about each other and start a riot over it before realising that sharing is caring.—Kinda crackish, lots of smut, a safe amount of fluff and a teensy-bit of angst, coming to a cinema near you! Featuring a somewhat-slutty Rip, an angry-about-everything Leonard, a Mick that’ll probably have sex with anything that moves, a cheeky Jax, a horny Sara, Martin starring as Rip’s emotional pillar of support, a not-dead Carter, puppy-dog Ray (not literally, unfortunately) and finally a badass Kendra.
Relationships: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, Miranda Coburn/Rip Hunter, Rip Hunter/Carter Hall, Rip Hunter/Jefferson "Jax" Jackson, Rip Hunter/Kendra Saunders, Rip Hunter/Leonard Snart, Rip Hunter/Martin Stein, Rip Hunter/Mick Rory, Rip Hunter/Ray Palmer, Rip Hunter/Sara Lance
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Good Things Don't Make Sense Anyhow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055396) by [skyline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline). 



**Leonard**

“You’re a little more forward, today,” Rip comments delicately against Snart’s thigh, the cultured baritone of his voice dripping with amused disdain as calloused hands card through his hair and tug roughly, as if to remind him of his place. Rip doesn’t mention how he could get up and leave anytime he wanted—they both know he’s not going to do it, at least not now. “Is there a reason I should be made aware of?”

“Do all British pretty boys talk this much during sex?” Snart demands icily, tone dropping into a dark growl as Rip nudges the other man’s cock with his nose, breathing contentedly in the sharp, familiar scent. Green eyes flicker upwards to meet glacial ones as he presses a kiss to the head of Snart’s leaking cock, earning a dissatisfied groan of want that Rip ignores completely.

“I’m delighted to know you think I’m pretty, Mr. Snart,” he replies coyly while pointedly disregarding the rest of the sentence, his tongue flicking out to steal a little sample of pre-come—glancing up at the criminal through long lashes, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Snart’s lust-clouded, heated gaze fixed on his lips. Evidently the thief isn’t as irritated by their byplay as he sounds. However, he’s apparently done with the conversation—a hand cups the back of his head and he allows the contact, letting Snart guide him as he pleases while aroused sparks dance beneath his skin. He’s not normally this relaxed in bed, but it’s been a long day for both of them and he hadn’t exactly been surprised when Snart had entered his quarters and promptly smashed their mouths together in an open-mouthed kiss without any explanation. 

“A little less talking and more sucking my dick, _Rip_.” Snart says the last word as if it’s a curse, his icy-blue eyes glinting dangerously with lust and something unknown—Rip hums in acknowledgement, placated enough to obey as his lips travel down Snart’s thigh, the latter’s legs spreading further to accomodate him. Rip is intimately familiar with his name being spat like that, be it out of fear or hatred, but it sounds a little bit different from Snart, like he’s acknowledging a rival as an equal. He thinks he could grow to like hearing his chosen name being said like that. 

“Well, since you said please so _nicely…_ ” He hollows his cheeks out and sucks Snart’s cock into his mouth, taking great enjoyment from the way he groans and shoves Rip’s head further down—by now he’s grown well-acquainted with this move and simply accepts it with good grace, clamping his mouth down tight around the base of Snart’s length to stop any building climax. A fire kindles in his gut at the amount of yearning in the hungry look that’s being given to him, the chilling, frozen arctic tundra of Snart’s eyes directly contrasting the throbbing, raging heat his body is giving off, and Rip finds himself deepthroating him in earnest, wanting to earn the man’s warmth more than words could describe. 

The crook rocks his hips up against Rip’s face insistently and he would huff affrontedly if he could, but Mother dear always _did_ tell him not to talk with his mouth full. Instead he flicks his tongue teasingly against Snart’s slit, blowing him with the passion of a starving man. Arousal spikes in his gut and he bobs his head at a quickening pace, dragging the pad of his tongue up the taller’s length tantalisingly—Snart backs up first, making Rip look up at him questioningly as he pulls away with a wet pop, his lips reddened and kiss-bitten, a string of saliva connecting the two of them. 

“It was going to be over too soon,” the man says matter-of-factly in response to Rip’s unspoken question. He crowds Rip back against his bed, the Captain unable to move any further back—in one fluid move, he straightens and grabs Snart’s parka sleeves, flipping the both of them onto his bed and licking his lips at the little gasp the action earns.

“For one, you’re wearing too much clothes. For another, I’m going to be on top...unless you have a problem with that?” He thinks Snart might challenge his declaration, but all the thief does is wet his lips, eyes flickering between Rip’s mouth and bare abdomen, before nodding compliantly.

Snart props himself up with one arm, eyebrows creased as if he’s second-guessing himself, and then pulls Rip down into a smooth, passionate kiss—their lips slot together easily, like two puzzle pieces fitting together flawlessly, and Rip delights in the sheer _desire_ he can sense practically oozing from Snart as Rip grinds down against his erection teasingly, straddling the taller in earnest. 

“You’re lucky you’re gorgeous.”

“Don’t expect me to thank you,” Rip replies just as swiftly, but his hands splay possessively across Snart’s chest and he bends down to press a fleeting but fervent kiss to the other man’s lips anyways, so maybe no further thanks is needed.

  
  
  


**Mick**

Mick is the next to approach him—or rather, it’s the other way around. Rip is sat in his office and pouring more scotch into a glass when he sees the arsonist lumber onto the bridge, thick brows drawn together in a tight frown. Before he knows what he’s doing, he downs the alcohol in one swift move and approaches Rory before he can think better of it. It’s certainly going to be more entertaining than rewatching his family’s last message over and over again until he passes out, anyhow, and while he normally wouldn’t seek out this sort of entertainment, he’s a little more than tipsy and needs must.

Rory tilts his head at him as he gets closer, his irritated frown only getting more pronounced, but he doesn’t move away and that’s a win in Rip’s book. 

“Looking for someone?”

Rory stares at him for a moment like he’s trying to decipher everything about Rip in one look, but then rolls his eyes, almost as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s stuck with Rip now. “Len’s asleep. I can’t wake him, he hasn’t slept in a while.”

Rip isn’t stupid, despite what his team seems to think. He knows that Snart and Rory have been in an open relationship for a few years now and counting, and that they regularly seek each other for either comfort or simply the base pleasures of the flesh. Neither is he unobservant enough to not notice the way Rory looks at him sometimes, like he wants to pin Rip against the wall and screw him senseless whenever he starts on one of his lectures, or the behaviors the pyromaniac is exhibiting now, the firm clench and unclenching of his fists and the dark, delicious promise in his eyes that swears by a good night. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to some company, if you’re so inclined.” The words are out before he can stop them, but luckily the look Rory is giving him is more of thinly-veiled confusion than disgust. “I may be presuming a tad too much, but if you happen to be in need of some...carnal pleasures—“

“Jesus Christ, just shut the fuck up already,” Rory grunts and Rip finds himself pressed up against the holodeck before he can react, a knee digging into his crotch cruelly—he sags against the contact, a soft moan slipping past his lips as he rolls his hips up against it needily; Rory chuckles, and it’s not a nice sound but Rip wouldn’t mind hearing more of it. _Much_ more of it.

“A simple yes would’ve served the same splendid purpose,” he mutters childishly, and Rory huffs out a half-laugh, grabs his chin and leans in close, his hot breath puffing out against the tender shell of Rip’s ear in uncharacteristic gentleness. It still makes Rip go weak at the knees, though, but Rory has enough decency to refrain from pointing it out.

“Sure, but would it have been as fun?” Rip doesn’t get a chance to reply as the supercriminal literally tears his coat from his body, chucking it in the corner before his shirt follows it just as quickly—Rip flushes, slightly flustered by Rory’s apparent eagerness, but he still manages to drag a little vexation into his expression. It wouldn’t do to look _too_ desperate, after all. His coat is thankfully unharmed, but the same can’t be said of his shirt, which is hung woefully over a seat, ripped right down the middle. 

He stills slightly as deft fingers find his belt buckle, but ignores it in favor of trailing butterfly kisses down the crook’s throat, nipping lightly at the dip in Rory’s collarbone and letting his hands run over the man’s broad chest, feeling out every curve and dip for himself. Rory’s ridged muscles are prominent even through a relatively-loose shirt like this one, but Rip finds himself scowling heavily and yanking petutantly at it anyways. The shirt practically falls apart in his hands and he discards it with a huff, only to look up as Rory snorts. “We’re even now,” Rip says with forced calm, and his heart palpitates even faster when the arsonist barks an actual, genuine laugh at the sentiment. 

“Oh, we’re _far_ from even, English.” Hands wrap around his hips and hoist him up so he’s lying back against the holodeck, and Rip moans raggedly as Rory claims his mouth in a ravenous kiss, lifting his hips so the other male can tug his boxers off. Rory kisses like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do, Rip contemplates a little dizzily as the criminal pulls back, examining his face with a starved, insatiable longing Rip knows all too well. 

A hitched noise of surprise slips past his lips as broad hands curl ‘round his thighs and pull him forwards so his legs are dangling off it. “Mr. Rory— _Mick—_ “ He tries, but the other male is already burying his head between Rip’s thighs and hunger explodes with dizzying force in the pit of his belly when a hot, hot tongue traces the rim of his entrance. A gasp is torn from his throat when he’s bent nearly in half, legs hooked over Rory’s shoulders so there’s no need to bend down. Silently thanking every deity out there that he’s always been flexible even as blood rushes to his head, he whines soundlessly, unable to do anything but sag helplessly against Rory’s sinful mouth as the latter teases him, spreading his cheeks firmly and lapping at him with a ferocity Rip had previously only associated with battle.

He realises he’s moaning unrestrainedly, bucking against Rory’s grip as the pyromaniac finally, _finally_ licks all the way in—his talented tongue dips down and curls at just the right spot and Rip jerks violently, crying out in wordless pleasure as an approaching orgasm builds in his gut. His tongue is thick in his mouth, refusing to allow him to form sentences to warn Rory, but then a hand settles around his cock and squeezes and he cries out as his climax washes over him violently, his hips flying up at the sheer overwhelming pressure of it all; He’s left panting, trembling and completely undone, but Rory doesn’t stop there, swirling his tongue and licking mercilessly at his insides without holding back at all. 

Rip _sobs_ , biting his lip to stop tears from forming from the overstimulation as he vainly attempts to pull his hips away from Rory, but the arsonist isn’t having it, reluctantly allowing him to lie back down and pinning him easily. Two fingers prod at his hole and he tenses, straining against Rory with a soft whine, but ends up slumping back against the table, chest heaving from the exertion as all the fight drains from his trembling body.

“—thought you’d be in control of this?” Rory is saying above him, but the only thing he can concentrate on is the slicked fingers inside him. It takes just under a minute for Rory to find the right angle—a third finger slips in and twists, jabbing at his prostate expertly, the crook apparently completely unsympathetic to his plight. Rip keens, mouth falling open desperately as his hands curl into fists, but there’s nothing to hold onto and he whimpers needily when he hears a zipper being undone, rocking back against the latter’s fingers in an effort to meet him halfway. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I _never_ bottom for anyone, and I gotta admit you look rather pretty on your knees.”

“For heaven’s sakes, shut up and—“ he snaps, only to be cut off when hands wrap around his throat and squeeze unrepentantly. He chokes out an aroused moan as he’s pulled off Rory’s fingers by the throat, the obscenely-wet squelch that accompanies the movement making Rip tilt his head back to offer easier access, his flush darkening.

“You like that, huh?” Rory growls as his grip on Rip’s throat tightens further, almost suffocating him—all the ex-Time Master can do is stare up at him uselessly, dilated pupils so wide and dark that there’s barely any color left in them. His pulse flutters wildly in his throat like a caged songbird and Rory takes that as his cue to rub his erection between Rip’s sensitive cheeks. He isn’t expecting it when he’s flipped and a hand comes down on his ass hard, again and again, shuddering with a little whimper as the print of the arsonist’s open palm blooms prettily against the pale starkness of his arse. The delicious mix of pleasure-pain has him pushing back against the taller, arching his spine in an attempt to receive more. “Shouldn’t be surprised that you’re this much of a slut, ‘specially after what Lenny’s said about your mouth.” 

“Did he also mention how he moaned like a whore when I fucked him into the bed? How he _screamed_ when I made him come again and again and again?” Rip is full aware he’s playing with fire here, and fire is very much Rory’s territory—Rory’s eyes darken and he licks his lips voraciously, suddenly much calmer, tamer. It doesn’t fool _him_ , though—he can still see the lingering, carnivorous hunger in the way he drops his head to nuzzle at Rip’s neck, predatory teeth tracing over the delicate, pale expanse of his throat. 

“There ain’t anything you could do to Len that I couldn’t return tenfold.” 

Rip can _hear_ his own heartbeat stuttering to a brief halt at that—but he hadn’t been a Time Master for nothing. Lifting his chin, he stares back at Rory defiantly, revelling in the poorly-hidden surprise in the other man’s gaze. “Do your worst.”

Rory considers him for a second, then tilts his head to the side and grins—it’s not a nice grin in the slightest. “Oh, I’ll do that and _more_.” 

It’s going to be a long night.

  
  
  


**Jax**

“Do you understand why the shock wave over the blunt leading edges must not be detached?” Rip questions patiently, sitting back on his haunches as Jax turns the open-ended question over in his head. Seeing the footballer think over his answer carefully makes him reminisce about moments just like this with his son—the passion in Jonas’ eyes had been his motivator for so long, his son’s zealous determination to gain knowledge greatly resembling his father’s. 

His little boy had been too young to understand most of the technical terms Rip used in his explanations, but Miranda would come and crouch next to her boys and explain the theory behind it using simpler terms and Jonas would light up like a Christmas tree at the shiny new information, something that Rip had treasured far beyond anything else; Miranda had teased Rip for it endlessly, but he’d never minded—every moment spent with his family had been wonderful, and now that he would never have that opportunity again, the beautiful memories were all he had left.

“—would allow the air on the bottom of the craft to flow spanwise and escape to the upper part of the wing through the gap between the edge and the shock wave, right?” Rip blinks as his eyes suddenly refocus on Jax’s hopeful expression—he can’t help but nod amicably, watching as the young man’s face flushes with his success. 

“Well put, Mr. Jackson. The loss of airflow would reduce the lift generated, which would only serve as a deterrent.” Jax whoops in delight, flinging his arms up in the air in an exuberant cheer only for Mick to pop his head into the room. The arsonist takes one glance at them and retreats immediately, his parting growled word of _nerds_ lingering lightly in the room. Rip and Jax exchange a look before both start laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all, Jax’s loud and boisterous while Rip’s quiet chuckles are much more restrained in comparison, though mirth brightens his eyes a lot more. 

Rip is still attempting to stifle his snickering when Jax crawls closer—he starts to point out that the other male has left the Waverider’s manual abandoned on the floor when chapped lips claim his mouth, tender and sweet. Rip stills for a few moments, but before Jax can pull away he brings one hand up to touch the superhero’s cheek affectionately. 

“I’m sorry,” Jax murmurs once they part for air, his gaze roving intently over Rip’s face for any indication that he hadn’t liked it. “you just...God, Rip, you look so gorgeous when you smile.” Rip ducks his head at that, more than a little disbelieving. It isn’t so much that he doesn’t think he’s good-looking, more that he doesn’t consider himself all that desirable. 

Besides his interesting accent and passable looks, he isn’t worth much—he doesn’t possess suave charm like Leonard, isn’t at all stunningly sexy the way Sara is, doesn’t have an ounce of the angelic beauty that Kendra has, definitely can’t compare to the princely regality and aristocracy that Carter exudes, isn’t even as classically handsome as Jax, barely manages to keep up with Martin’s crisp intelligence, doesn’t radiate an intimidating but captivating allure like Mick and _certainly_ isn’t as exquisitely-enticing as Ray. He’s nothing compared to them and he knows it, but that doesn’t mean the knowledge doesn’t hurt. 

“I...thank you.” He mumbles non-committedly, ready to spout some sort of excuse to get out of this increasingly-awkward situation if that’s what it takes. Unfortunately, Lady Luck doesn’t seem to be on his side—His heart nearly stops when his chin is tilted up, reluctantly meeting Jax’s astonished stare. 

“Do you really not see it? I gotta ask, have you ever looked in a mirror?” 

He flushes hotly in response to the gentle teasing, mind blanking out when the footballer leans in close, pressing an adoring kiss to his shoulder as he waits for a response. “Ah—I, uhm...well, not many people have...shared your opinion.” Immediately, his mind jumps to the memories of Leonard calling him gorgeous and Mick’s grudging compliment that he was pretty, and he clears his throat with a blush that probably looks ridiculous on him. “Outside of this ship, anyhow.” 

Jax looks curious at his last sentence, but doesn’t pry. Instead he tugs Rip closer, the British not fighting the contact as the younger male nuzzles up to him and bestows several featherlight kisses down the slanted arch of his jaw. “I’m pretty sure that they’re all blind, then. Shit, Rip, whichever idiot who turned you down must’ve been having a stroke or something because I’ve seen a ton of hot people—I mean, have you _seen_ Kendra—but damn, you could be a model if you wanted.” 

“I suppose I know where to find a job if this time-travelling shtick doesn’t work out, then,” Rip jokes back tentatively and is instantly rewarded with a joyful grin, Jax laughing breathlessly against his mouth. 

“Now you’re getting it. Nice, maybe now there’s a chance of you getting a sense of humor before Grey goes—well, grey.” The ex-Time Master’s eyes soften immensely as he dips his head to kiss Jax indulgently. He doesn’t know when he’d gotten attached enough to his team that he’d started using their first names in his head, but he isn’t complaining. Miranda always nagged him gently about getting a social circle, but he’d always shot her down and told her that she and Jonas would be all he ever needed. However, life, or rather _time_ , had found a nasty little loophole to solve their bickering. One couldn’t have a marital dispute if they weren’t married, after all. 

“Keep that up and we won’t be taking this any further,” he warns in faux-irritation—Jax just smirks knowingly up at him and he wonders when the hell he’d gotten so close to all of them that Jax could see through his masks this easily. 

“Keep _that_ up and you won’t be getting your dick sucked,” the young man chirps back cheekily, only to earn a swat on the arm. 

“Well, first of all, I feel that we should be moving this to the bedroom.” Jax’s expression screws up in annoyance, only for Rip to hold up a hand. “Do you really want to be the person that explains why we were caught having intercourse in here to Professor Stein?” The footballer pales instantly and jumps up, white as a sheet before a little color paints his cheeks a lovely crimson. 

“Good point, but last one to your room gets cockblocked!” Rip gets to his feet while making a face at the crass language, and doesn’t cast the crumpled manual on the floor a single glance before he’s up and dashing after the impertinent brat. It wouldn’t do to be denied anything—after all, he wants to see how this night goes. 

  
  
  


**Sara**

It’s mid-afternoon when Rip retreats to his room in desperate need of a shower. The mission had left all of them covered in grime and sweat, and Rip’s coat is coated with blood that doesn’t belong to him. He’d laid off on the post-lecture mission this time, knowing that everyone was in need of a good meal and a thorough wash first and foremost. He’d left for his quarters after checking up on his team to make sure none of them were too badly injured—scrapes, bruises and cuts are universal between them, but a few got it worse than others; Kendra is nursing a slight concussion and Jax has a twisted ankle, but besides that they’ve all got off easily. Nevertheless, the point remains that the moment he’d finished examining them, he’d been the first to leave, so the sight of Sara leaning against the doorway makes him jump, just a little bit.

Her lips curve upwards in a flirtacious smirk as she stalks towards him and loops her arm with his, pulling him towards his bathroom. Rip has a faint idea of where this is going, but he doesn’t fight it, letting her tug him into the showerstall. When she turns to grin up at him, her eyes catch him by surprise—he’d originally compared them with Snart’s piercing wintry ones, but hers are underlined with kohl, crystal-clear and stark against her face. “Loosen up, Rip. You’re tense.”

“I wonder why.” He replies dryly as she snickers at his deadpan expression, reaching around him to get the water running. 

“ _I_ don’t have a clue,” Sara returns impishly, making sure to sway her hips seductively as she peels her skintight suit off painstakingly-slow, her feminine curves all the more amplified by the way she’s looking at him—there’s an absolutely _filthy_ shine to her eyes that would have even the most devout of nuns on their knees within seconds. “You’ve got a beautiful assassin in your arms. If anything, that should make you _more_ relaxed.” 

“Yes, because anything involving you is usually so _relaxing_ ,” he quips back, arching a single eyebrow imperiously as she flings her arms ‘round his neck, getting on her tippy-toes to kiss the fond exasperation off his face. 

“God, I love it when you do the eyebrow thing. You look like a sexy professor.” Rip smirks but doesn’t answer, detangling himself from her long enough to undress as well. Her smouldering gaze travels downwards, tracing over the old silvery-white scars that curve over his stomach and twist behind his hips and the reddish-brown hairs that trail between his thighs in a slanted V appreciatively. He hoists her up carefully, letting her wrap her long legs around his waist as he presses her against the shower wall. Warm water cascades over both of them like a waterfall and she laughs when he has to spit a strand of her long, blonde hair from his mouth, but he silences her swiftly by pressing their lips together.

Kissing Sara is a lot different from kissing Snart or Rory. Her lips are plush against his, soft and needy—she gasps breathily into his mouth when his hands slide up her body, mapping out the curve of her deceptively-flat stomach and perky breasts. Her muscles are a lot less defined than Rory’s, but he can still feel the underlying strength in her biceps and thighs, like steel-imbued cords working in tandem to keep her coiled around him. Her mouth parts eagerly before his tongue, Rip sucking on her bottom lip to drag more of those lovely, intoxicating sounds from her throat. One of his hands snake upwards to twine in her hair as they make out like horny teenagers, Sara laughing breathlessly against his mouth as his teeth tug at her lip, unable to get enough of her, relishing the fact that she’s trapped completely between his body and the wall, pliant under his fingertips. “When’s the last time you got some, Rip?”

“Yesterday, actually,” he answers with exaggerated innocence—she looks almost scandalised at his answer, a little affronted to know someone else had gotten to him before her, but quickly forgets all about her previous annoyance when he braces her against the wall, his mouth latching to one of her breasts. She keens above him when he laps and nibbles at it sloppily, pressing herself against him more securely—it’s hot and desperate and all he’s ever wanted, but then she taps at his shoulder and he pulls back reluctantly, watching her avidly. He isn’t disappointed at all when she leans forward to take two of his fingers in her mouth, her eyes fluttering shut as she coats them in saliva—he’s certain that they’d both prefer lube, but is just as certain that they wouldn’t be able to part for that long and he doesn’t have the waterproof kind anyways.

He can’t help but groan at the sultry sight when Sara glances upwards to meet his intense gaze, her eyes half-lidded and coquettish in the way she grinds against his erection maddeningly gently. She pulls back and moans when he wastes no time in pressing two digits to her slick entrance, letting one nail trail over her clit teasingly before he’s pressing into her insistently, unable to summon enough patience to take this slow. Besides, from what he can tell from her stamina, they’ll be at it for a while. 

She gasps and throws her head back, her lithe body trembling with need when Rip pulls her out of the shower and fingerfucks her all the way to the sink, shoving her flat against the cool surface. Her legs tremble and fall open obediently, and he takes the opportunity to slip another finger into her sinfully-soaked cunt, his fingers curling upwards in a come-hither movement—she jerks suddenly, body spasming and crying out like she’s been electrocuted before she slumps back against the sink and Rip feels a smug smirk slip onto his face as she clenches around his fingers, her pulsing walls sucking him in. “Rip, I swear to _fuck_ if you don’t fuck me right now—“

“Language,” he chides mildly, but kisses her once more to swallow her noise of anger as he lines himself up carefully. Sara stiffens against him, a quiet wrecked noise falling from her lips when he begins pushing in, but Rip lets a hand settle soothingly on her hip. “Relax. I won’t hurt you.” She meets his eyes and he’s momentarily startled by the sheer amount of trust there before she’s averting her gaze, flushed and wanting. 

“You don’t have to tell me that,” she grouses, but the words carry a significant amount of warmth and Rip finds himself waiting for her to go slack before fitting his cock in fully, scrounging the remaining dregs of his patience up from god-knows-where as her body relaxes against his. Testing her to make sure she’s ready, he drags his hips back and snaps forward _hard,_ jostling Sara’s whole body. The movement earns a shaky, bitten-off cry from her and he takes that as his cue to start moving, thrusting experimentally and earning a garbled whimper that sounds like it’s been ripped directly from her lungs, the assassin panting as she rocks back against his thrusts stubbornly, seemingly determined to meet every one of his thrusts head-on. “Is that the best you can do?”

Rip meets her gaze, and she smirks when she realises he isn’t quite as relaxed as he sounds—his eyes are dilated and filled with raging, tempestuous desire and his hands tighten on her hips demandingly. “Is that a challenge?” He questions neutrally, searching her eyes for some sort of indication—a bold grin plays on her quirked lips as she grabs him, tugging him down with unyielding strength and a grip a vice would envy. 

“What are you going to do if it is, _Captain_?”

Now that’s a low blow. He drops one hand down to thumb at her clit, rolling the bud between his fingers—she groans and bucks her hips in enthusiastic encouragement, but doesn’t break their scorching eye-contact. “I suppose I’ll have to rise to it.” 

He leans down and kisses her, and the rest of the night is lost to both of them. 

  
  
  


**Martin**

The next time someone approaches him, well. It isn’t good timing at all. 

Rip pulls his coat a little tighter around him and knocks back another glass, hoping naively that it’ll shield him from the world. It’s a childish hope, but it’s a hope, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do without this little mercy. 

Trembling hands reach for the bottle and he tries tipping more of the crystalline liquid into his glass, but he fumbles with it and it slams into the ground, shattering on impact—Rip curses, silently admonishing himself, but makes no movement to clean his mess up as he puts the opening to his lips instead. Much less inconvenience this way, seeing as he’ll be downing the bottle and more anyways. 

“Captain Hunter?” Rip jerks in shock at the voice, sitting up carefully and setting the bottle back down, but the damage has already been done. Professor Stein approaches him carefully, eyes wide with concern—embarrassment runs hot through his veins and Rip sighs heavily, glancing at the ground. Stein gives him a good minute to scrutinise the glass shards scattered across the floor at his feet, but then steps forwards pointedly.

“What do you need?” Rip asks bleakly as he lifts his gaze to meet the professor’s, hoping that he can just get this over with. The quicker Stein leaves, the quicker he can wallow in his own self-loathing. No doubt the older just wants someone to discuss the histronics of time-travel science with, or maybe someone to settle a dispute between him and Jackson. 

“I wanted to check up on you.” The simple sentence has Rip’s eyes widening in surprise before he coughs awkwardly, averting his gaze. He’s always been a solitary person, at least until his family had forced him out of his shell, and his team, which have pulled him out of more than a few dark times whether they knew it or not. Still, he isn’t used to hearing that sentence—it’s unfamiliar enough that he blinks back tears, his eyes sporting a glistening sheen as he clears his throat uncomfortably. 

“Ah...well, yes...thank you for that…” He trails off uncertainly, wondering whether that’s enough to shoo the older man away. Stein simply raises his eyebrows in clear doubt and Rip huffs, steepling his fingers together with a foreign calm he doesn’t feel. “Er, pay no mind to the mess. I’m afraid I was attempting to sort through some important documents and accidentally swiped the glass off my desk entirely. I can clean it up by myself, so please don’t concern yourself with it. If—if that is all, Professor Stein?” 

Stein studies his expression for a few moments before he comes closer—Rip fights the instinctive need to lean away from prying eyes and simply forces himself to relax as best he can, not quite meeting the professor’s gaze. “I hope you know Snart didn’t mean to say that.” The softness in Stein’s voice surprises him more than the actual words—Rip swallows, ignoring the lump in his throat as he nods sharply. 

“I assure you, Professor, that if Mr. Snart didn’t want to say something he wouldn’t have. Nonetheless, I didn’t take any offence, and even if I had it isn’t as if anything he said was untrue.” Rip points out, keeping his facial expression as neutral as possible despite the vindictive hurt he’s been nursing for a good while. He’d actually been foolish enough to believe that he and Snart had been getting along, and while his words had hurt initially, it was the betrayal that stung the most. 

“Leonard is human too, you know, and humans don’t have perfect control over their emotions no matter what you think. We lose our tempers and say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment. It’s part of life.”

Rip exhales slowly, presumptiously, and stares at his hands numbly. Sometimes, if he blinks too fast, he can still see the grime and blood caked into his palms from that fateful day, like a fever dream. “I fail to see your point.”

“My _point,_ Captain, is that nobody on this ship is taking this as hard as you are despite the parts we played in Mr. Rory’s injuries.” Stein says reasonably. “He was not badly hurt, his wounds were mostly superficial and I understand wanting to take on some of the blame, but that doesn’t mean you should have to carry _all_ of it. Jefferson and I were lax in our duties and failed to provide Mick with sufficient back-up. Sara, Kendra and Carter failed to meet us at the rendezvous point and cost us important time that might have helped to secure Mick’s position. Leonard and Ray failed to retrieve Mick’s weapon in time. Even Mick himself was the one to run off on his own, weaponless. Why is it so hard for you to understand that we all share the blame in this?”

Before he can carefully evaluate what he’s doing, he’s slamming his palms down against his desk, making an uneven stack of old tomes crash to the ground as fury bubbles and broils throughout his body, but to his credit Stein doesn’t even blink at it. The man _is_ one half of a superhero team, after all, and he’s been in his fair share of crisis scenarios, not to mention that the person he’s bonded to is a prepubescent young man who’s barely out of his teens. He shudders out a choked whimper, shining tears clinging to his lashes like a prayer, and his guardian angel is instantly by his side, one hand kneading Rip’s back comfortingly and the other in Rip’s lap, squeezing his hands gently in silent support.

“You don’t—understand, I am the _Captain_ of this team! Everything that goes wrong is _my_ responsibility! I’m responsible for all of you for as long as you remain under my protection, responsible for your injuries and worries and needs and problems—if anything, _anything_ happens to you while we’re off gallivanting carelessly through space, that is on _me!_ If you never see your families again, if you never make it _home_ ...that will be _my_ fault. If—If I have to turn up on your loved ones’ doorstep to explain why you will not be returning to them in one piece...I fear I won’t be able to—“ Stein’s hand tightens its grip—Rip is temporarily jarred from his distraught reverie when he sees empathy and more than a little _understanding_ in the professor’s eyes. 

“Captain Hunter, you are not the only one who has had to shoulder this burden. As you recall, Jefferson was not my first partner in Firestorm.” Rip pauses as heavy-set dread fills him and opens his mouth to hastily apologise and tell him that he doesn’t have to say anything he doesn’t want to, but Stein gives him a reproving look and his mouth clicks shut instantly. “I failed to keep Ronnie safe. I was the one to had to inform his loved ones of his demise that I failed to prevent. I understand the weight you’re carrying far, far more than anybody else on this ship, and I understand that it is not an easy one, but what you fail to realise is that you’re not _alone_. The others may not understand the exact circumstances you’re in, but they still care for you, and I assure you that not a single one of them will turn you away if you need to talk about this. And if all else fails, _I_ will always be here. My door will always be open to you, my dear Captain, no matter the time or day.” 

The sheer level of genuine _kindness_ in Stein’s eyes is too much for him to handle—he sags heavily against the professor, but Stein holds him up easily as Rip bites his lip to stop any weak noises from escaping, tears welling up in his eyes all the same. They stay like that for what feels like hours even though it logically couldn’t have been more than five minutes—eventually, though, Rip clears his throat and Stein backs off, tactful enough not to mention the red-rimmed eyes Rip now has. “Thank—thank you, Professor, but I’d...prefer to be alone now. I’ll just clean this up and turn in to bed, I think.” 

Stein smiles a little, the simplicity of it lighting his face up and making him look decades younger—he leans closer and presses a gentle kiss to Rip’s forehead before patting the ex-Time Master’s arm with a satisfied hum. “You’d best do that. Tomorrow’s guaranteed to be a long day, after all.”

“Why do you say that?” Rip asks curiously, eyeing the older man—Stein stops at the doorway and looks back at him, playfulness dancing in his eyes. 

“Everyday spent as a Legend is a long day, Captain Hunter. Goodnight.” 

Rip sits there amongst scattered books and shards of glass, watching Stein’s retreating back with a strange fondness he’s come to associate with every person on his team, and then smiles tiredly to himself.

“Damn right it is.”

(And tomorrow, when Snart enters his room with a sincere apology on his tongue and a bottle of bourbon in his hands, looking remarkably like a kicked puppy rather than the intimidating supercriminal that he is, Rip accepts it with relative dignity and reminds himself to offer gracious thanks to Stein later.) 

  
  
  


**Carter**

“I don’t like this plan,” Rip mutters for the third time in five minutes, cheeks burning as Carter gives him a swift, dismissive once-over before his confident gaze returns to the people in the queue in front of them. “I still think it’s too risky.”

“You’ve made your opinion quite clear,” The demigod nods seriously, a mischievious glint in his eyes and oh _God_ Sara’s rubbed off on the man, hasn’t she? “but if you recall, I wasn’t given much of a choice either. Besides, can you see Ray in here?”

“He’d be eaten alive,” Rip agrees reluctantly, his lips twitching upwards in grudging amusement as they not-so-subtly edge another couple out of the line and take their place. “Still, I don’t see why Mr. Snart couldn’t have taken my place. His expertise in pickpocketing would certainly come in handy.” 

Carter shrugs, looking passive, but the cat-like gleam in his eyes betray the clear entertainment he’s gaining from the whole scenario. “Gideon did her research. Our target has a type, and unless Snart happens to be British…?” Rip scowls woodenly at that, ducking his head to hide his displeased frown so they aren’t discovered by the hired muscle parked strategically up and down the streets. “And it isn’t as if you’re lacking in the pickpocketing department, unless I happened to be imagining your days as a cutpurse?” The ex-Time Master huffs flatly at the gentle jibe, but he can’t deny it. He hadn’t had much choice, after all—he’s always been a fast learner, and living on the streets forced him to pick up the tricks of the trade quick lest he starved to death. 

The other street rats had depended on self-preservation first and foremost and _certainly_ hadn’t wanted to teach their skills to a stupid kid that wasn’t even going to last till winter, so he’d had to learn by simply watching the dangerous dance firsthand—he learned how to sneak through the sketchier streets unseen and bump into well-off strangers that were rushing somewhere, perfecting the delicate art of the stuttered apologies and the _pathetic-orphan_ expression while fishing out wallets and watches and jewelry out of pockets like quicksilver at the same time. He hadn’t continued to hone his thievery after he got into the Academy besides a few misdemeanours—Leonard, on the other hand, had much more experience and raw talent than him, loathe as he was to admit it.

“Yes, well. If I didn’t know better I’d say you lot agreed just to see me in this…” His lip curls in a disdainful sneer as he glances down at himself and then back up again. “... _outfit.”_ He doesn’t look _bad_ , per se, but he isn’t used to dressing this formally and he doesn’t like going without his trusty coat for any reason. He’s in a modest, dark-red buttondown shirt and dress pants that’re probably a _shade_ tighter than he’d prefer, not that any of the others seemed to care. He’s well aware of his team’s flattering but unfortunate habit of ogling him whenever they can—it’s even turned into a competition, something he’d gone off on them for and promptly sulked for the next hour when they all collectively disregarded anything he’d said.

He’d genuinely meant to say it as a joke, but something in Carter’s gaze shifts, gaining an unfamiliar, predatory tint to them that he doesn’t recognise. “What would you do if I confirmed your suspicions?” Rip can only gape at him, shell-shocked as the prince guides him a few paces forwards, his hand settling comfortably on the small of Rip’s back. “All I’m saying is that you aren’t particularly bad-looking, Rip. Accept a compliment every now and then, it’ll do wonders for your personality.”

“Have you been possessed? By Ms. Lance, perhaps?” He asks in consternation, only half-joking as Carter shrugs wordlessly in response. “Are you actually attempting to flirt with me by telling me I look _passably-attractive_ to you?” 

“If the shoe fits,” The taller says easily in response and Rip can’t even shoot a glare at the man before the bouncer steps in front of them very deliberately, thick brows furrowed warily. Carter passes their VIP identification cards over, tugging Rip flush against his side while the latter dips his head and makes sure to appear meek, fuming internally at having to play the shy boytoy role. He’s never been good at acting, especially like this. Carter’s hand presses against his spine in a warning and Rip sneaks a subtle glance at the guards closing in, not making a single movement to grab ahold of his revolver. 

“I don’t see you two on the VIP list,” the bouncer grunts, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Rip sticks close to Carter as the other male sweet-talks their way in, all honeyed words and sleek, shiny lies—they escape the intense scrutiny by the skin of their teeth, but Rip lets his head settle on Carter’s shoulder in a signal for them to not let their guard down. There’s at least two people tailing them that he knows of, and he curses silently underneath his breath as they squeeze through the partying crowd. He’s never been fond of clubs, and much less now as an ex-Time Master. 

Carter tilts his head down at him and Rip leans up until his lips are brushing the hawk god’s ear. “There’s one on the stage and three on our backs. Our target is in the east wing. Now laugh and pretend to go to the bathroom.” Rip coaxes a ditzy, unassuming smile onto his face and pulls back, licking his lips like he’s just seen his next meal—Carter chuckles smoothly and signals to the bartender to bring some shots, his hand trailing down to settle on Rip’s waist. On the off-chance that their cover is blown, the rest of their team will come in guns ablaze, but that’s a last resort they don’t plan on using. 

“Stay here and maybe we can have a good time when I get back.” the demigod purrs, voice dropping into a sinful timbre and Rip _almost_ blushes like a schoolgirl for real—where the bloody hell is Carter getting all his _aggravating_ charm from—and nods, making sure to look a little anxious at being alone. Carter turns to leave and it’s barely ten minutes before someone saunters up to him, a well-dressed blond in a tasteful suit that doesn’t look like it belongs in a gay club, no matter how prestigious said club may be. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, who was that terribly-rude gentleman who left someone as beautiful as you alone?” _God,_ if he doesn’t get the chance to shoot this man at least once before they leave he might actually end up having to compromise his personal morals. Rip disguises his vicious snarl as an embarrassed look, fighting not to flinch when a hand slides up his thigh. 

“No more than a friend, Mr…?”

“Castro,” the man replies, giving him an appraising look, and Rip forces himself to preen under the attention. “Mr. Castro.” Rip’s eyes widen slightly in faked surprise at the name, and he prides himself on the way Castro’s initial-cool expression falls away to reveal lust. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I just realised that I know you...you’re the CEL of OC Industries, right?”

Castro smirks devilishly at him, leaning forwards and encroaching on his personal space—his bodyguards _finally_ move closer to Rip and the British watches in relief as Carter slips into the east wing unobtrusively without delay to disable the alarms, sensors and lockdown system in the club. “Greatest arms dealer of Europe, at your service. I’m glad you recognised me. I mean, _naturally,_ but you know how dreadfully small-minded most people are.” Castro chuckles at his own words and Rip wants nothing more than to draw his gun and start shooting, but he forces himself to laugh along. “However, I have to ask—whereabouts in Britain are you from?”

Rip frowns theatrically, letting his lips curve down in a slight pout and watching gleefully as Castro’s eyes follow the motion. “Oh, it’s not that well-known. You’d be hard-pressed to recognise such an insignifcant place in London. But I’m surprised you picked up on that—I had thought that I’ve spent enough time here that my accent would be lost by now, but I suppose that just goes to show that we cannot hide where we came from.” 

“Why would you want to?” Castro questions with a haughty tilt of his chin. “I’ve always loved the British accent. And your eyes, too... You’ll have to excuse my forwardness.” 

_Where on Earth is Carter?_ Rip disregards the millionaire’s sugar-coated words, struggling not to react as his hand ventures into places it really shouldn’t be. Right on cue, he catches sight of Carter strolling out of the room easily and relief swells in his heart. “Your bodyguards…” he trails off, leaning a little closer and picking up on the way Castro’s eyes dilate—he lets his gaze drift to said guards and then back on the businessman. “Do they follow you everywhere?” Castro glances over his shoulder at them and Rip switches the 22nd century computer chip in Castro’s pocket with the useless, short-circuited one in his own in one swift movement. 

“Not unless I wish them to.” Castro says, looking back at Rip. “On that note...please wait here for a brief moment while I tell them to leave us alone for a while. I wouldn’t want their presence to put a damper on our _budding_ relationship.” Rip agrees, allowing the man to press a sloppy kiss to his cheek while disgust builds in his gut—the moment the slimeball’s back is turned, he hightails it out of there. He steps past the threshold and his shoulders go slack with relief when no alarms sound. Carter is by the back entrance, waiting for him. 

“You looked like you were having fun.” His gaze shifts to Carter as they make their way to the Waverider—the taller looks composed enough, but he’s spent enough time around liars to know what a mask looks like. 

“Why, are you jealous?” The question is neutral, but Rip watches interestedly as the other male goes red. _Huh._

“Hypothetically...if I _did_ happen to be jealous, how would you be reacting right now?” 

The Captain bites his lip at that, his mind going a mile a minute—he hadn’t expected Carter to press the matter instead of lightening the mood. Wasn’t the man Kendra’s soulmate? But on the other hand, Rip _has_ seen the way he looks at Ray, so…

Carter is an enigma. On one hand, the demigod is fiercely protective, loyal and honest, but on the other hand he’s also a little bit of a wild-card. When Rip had originally been planning on possible recruits for this mission, he’d hesitated to select the hawk duo for a reason; their deaths at the hands of Savage had made the both of them unpredictable. The saying _if you can’t beat them, join them_ might not neccessarily apply in this circumstance seeing as he doubted either of them would ever defect to Savage’s side, but they still ran a decent risk of being noticed by one of the dictator’s men throughout history. If Savage knew they were after him, he would almost certainly go underground and disappear from the history books, meaning that tracking him would be a lot more difficult. However, he’d felt that the two deserved a chance to exact justice upon Savage more than anyone despite the obvious disadvantages, and even after they had joined he couldn’t find it within himself to regret it. 

Kendra and Carter were the antonyms of each other, but they both balanced each other out perfectly. Kendra was a welcome burst of color in his life—she and Ray were the literal definition of accentuating the positive, something that Rip didn’t have much of nowadays. However, sometimes he grew weary of the constant cheeriness and retreated to the library, where a serene Carter would greet him and they could just sit in silence for hours on end, shoulders brushing with occasional short conversation about a new reccommended book or new strategies to take down Savage. More than anyone, Carter alone understood his unquenchable hatred for the dictator. Even Kendra, who had died just as many times due to Savage as Carter, and Sara, whose bloodlust and thirst for revenge ran unparalleled amongst their crew, couldn’t understand the desperate, burning _need_ to bury Savage six feet under. But _Carter_ did, always—the man never judged him for using lethal force when it came to Savage’s men even when Ray and Jax looked at him disappointedly, and never tried to make him take the high ground like Martin always suggested.

Everyone on the Waverider had somehow become _home_ to him without his even noticing it before it was too late, and _God_ Rip hates acknowledging his feelings in any way, but somehow this quiet, shared moment _just_ for the two of them alone made him feel both elated butterflies and gnawing anxiety. 

“Well…” Rip says finally, turning to look up at the other male fully. “I’d start with this, I believe,“ and presses their lips together. 

Carter pulls him close in the exact same instance, flush against each other comfortably—their bodies fit together so seamlessly that Rip closes his eyes and just enjoys the moment, chests rising and falling in synchronised tandem. Carter’s lips are chapped and he tastes vaguely of champagne and ripe strawberries; _not a bad combination_ , Rip thinks distantly as he smiles contentedly against the demigod’s lips. This is different from the desperate, frenzied kisses he and Sara would share, and different from even Leonard’s passionate, possessive ones, but he likes it just as much all the same. They only pull back for air a minute or two later after a lazy make-out session, but then Rip reaches up to trace Carter’s defined cheekbones with his thumb, grinning faintly up at him. “And then you’d kiss me back.” he clarifies, leaving no room for arguments as one sleek eyebrow arches in clear-cut expectation. 

He can’t help but smirk in satisfied gratification as Carter is startled into laughter, enthralling golden eyes sparkling with humor (and since _when_ did he have golden eyes, _honestly,_ Rip would bet a limb that Carter just woke up one day and his voice was already silky-smooth without any of the repercussions that came with undergoing puberty _)_ before he obligingly claims Rip’s lips once more, his tongue almost feeling like a permanent brand, marking Rip as his, “You’re a demanding one,” The warrior murmurs off-handedly, fondly when they separate, cupping Rip’s cheek. “I like it. I like _you_.”

“And I you,” Rip returns, clinging to Carter with a soft moan as the demigod mouths down his neck heatedly, sucking bruising hickeys into his pale skin. “you do know that if you do it that obviously…” He doesn’t have to finish his sentence as Carter pulls back eventually, eyes smug as he surveys the mess of love-bites and hickeys trailing down his throat. 

“Let them look. Maybe they’ll back off you once they see that I’ve gotten to you first.” There’s a hard, territorial edge to the man’s words that makes Rip shiver slightly in genuine pleasure at the fact that he’s _wanted_ by someone, caustically wondering what would happen if Carter knew that plenty of the team had so-called ‘gotten to him first’. Part of him could see Carter getting more jealous, but on the other hand, he’s learned from a reliable source (if Sara could be counted as reliable) that envy-fuelled sex is much better than the regular. Still, it’s something to consider for another time and anyway he’s not currently in a committed, steady relationship with anyone, so he can hardly be blamed for this.

“Perhaps,” he replies mysteriously, and tugs Carter down for one more kiss as Mick gripes about how long they’re taking to return over the comms. 

  
  
  


**Ray**

“ _Where_ are the reinforcements?” Rip cries into the comms, frustrated and exhausted as he shoots a time pirate in the chest and spins to take out another one that had been advancing towards Ray. They’ve been at it for hours, and Rip can feel himself tiring—he’s using his laser revolver, so he doesn’t have to worry about ammunition, but even his impressive stamina can’t keep up with the situation. 

The fact that it’s pitch-black out doesn’t make it any easier—the moon has fled its sacred post and the flickering oil lamps surrounding the battlegrounds isn’t a great light source. He curses as he receives a glancing blow to the shoulder, pain lancing up his arm viciously. Turning and disarming the pirate easily, he swings with his machete and the swipe spills the other’s guts all over the floor, but Rip doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Wiping flecks of blood from his face so he can at least see, he ducks behind an abandoned stall and shoots two in the approaching horde—he’d really prefer to be somewhere up high with a sniper-rifle so he could pick them off steadily, but he doesn’t ever get what he wants so today is no different. 

“Mick and Len are still trying to find the stupid artifact, the hawk duo is over there creating a distraction for them and Martin is piloting the Waverider here!” Sara shouts back, her voice carrying over the noisy din as she brandishes her bo staff and gets to work, easily fending off attackers and whirling through the crowd, dispatching enemies left and right like a raging tornado. They don’t even have the advantage of Firestorm this time, seeing as Jax is recovering from a broken ankle in the medical bay. 

“We’re going as fast as we can, English, cut us some slack.” Mick growls, his voice muffled by the sound of a small scuffle in the background. Rip dearly longs for a drink as he throws himself back to avoid having his head taken off by a sword and receives a punch in the gut as compensation—the ex-Time Master ignores his protesting lungs as he plunges his machete into someone’s eye and lets go of the handle, ducking behind a boulder and shooting at anyone nearby. 

That’s strange. He hasn’t heard Ray’s voice in a while.

Glancing around the battlefield, he hopes that his worries are unfounded—Ray knows how to take care of himself on the field, but things go wrong and luck runs out without any warning. Not to mention that since they’ve all split-up, the likelihood of one of them going down has been unfortunately increased. He’d rather be paranoid and wrong about this than naïve and right. Steeling himself for a sprint, he ducks and weaves between the furic pirates in an effort to make it to the last place he’d seen the Atom. “Dr. Palmer? Status report!” 

There’s no answer.

Rip forcefully stifles the instant terror that wells up within him and calls Ray’s name again—he doesn’t have an aerial view of the situation and there’s several clashes everywhere, so they can only truly rely on the communication devices to figure out where each other is. Sara’s white leather is distinctive in the center, but no sign of the Atom suit. “Sara, where is he?!”

“I last saw him—“ she slams her open palm into someone’s face, stabs another in the thigh and flips backwards, catches her breath. “somewhere over by that clearing, but he’s been MIA for a few minutes now.”

_A few minutes_. A few minutes is crucial in war—it made or broke success and defeat. It was the difference between a fatal injury and a lethal one. It was the difference between a dead ally and a live one. 

“Dr. Palmer!” He calls out, redoubling his efforts to sweep the scene—there’s no one in the area Sara had mentioned, but he still finds himself glancing over the overturned crates of fresh fruit and food products just in case Ray had dragged himself behind one of them so as to not draw attention to himself. “Dr. Palmer, if you don’t respond right this _instant_ I will _never_ entertain another one of your _incessant_ breakfast obsessions—“

There’s what sounds like a choked laugh over to his right and Rip almost collapses from relief, but the sight before him nearly makes his heart give out. Rip stares at Ray’s mangled form in no little horror, dropping to his knees and applying pressure onto the fallen superhero’s wound. His suit is nowhere to be found, presumably in its case, but Rip can’t bring himself to care. “Why didn’t you—“ the words start off as a yell, but when Ray winces he instantly tones his shout down. “— _tell_ anyone you needed help?”

Ray lifts a blood-caked hand and gestures vaguely to the left with a weary, apologetic smile—Rip flinches as his eyes catch the glinting metal of a crushed earpiece laying scattered in bits on the floor. Ray could have been laying here _dead_ and none of them would ever have known until they found him. He could have _died_ . He might _still_ die, Rip corrects himself as he eyes the bloody mess that is the billionaire’s side. 

“Professor Stein, I want the Waverider at the coordinates I just sent you in three minutes.” He says coldly over the comms, not paying one whit of attention to the immediate protests. He knows Martin has been trying to fly it cautiously so as to not jostle Jax, but the footballer’s broken ankle is lower on his list of priorities right now. “Mr. Rory, Mr. Snart, destroy half the building by all means if you have to, but I want the four of you on my ship within the next ten minutes. Stop them if you can...kill them if you must. Ms. Lance, I’m sending you my coordinates now as well _—please—_ “ His voice breaks, but none of them comment on it, clearly picking up on the desperate urgency in Rip’s voice.

“Why, Captain...I didn’t know you cared.” There’s a joke in Ray’s voice, but the blood he coughs up next off-sets all that. “Hm…’m cold…s’that a side effect of being stabbed…?”

Rip swears colorfully as he drops his hands from Ray’s wound long enough to pull off his own coat and wrap it around the man before reapplying pressure once more—Ray jerks slightly and moans at the pain, but he seems to be keeping himself awake admirably. “Dr. Palmer...Raymond...keep your eyes open and on me. Eyes _open.”_

The taller is clearly in some kind of hypovolemic shock—his clothes are stemming a little of the blood-flow, but judging from the crimson puddle he’s lying in, he’s already lost more than a fourth of his blood, and the excessive sweating certainly isn’t helping either. Losing _this_ much blood is almost certainly going to see some organ failure, but Gideon can deal with the brunt of that. His priority is getting Ray on the ship and in the medical bay as fast as possible—he is _not_ going to lose someone else. He’s lost enough loved ones—surely the Fates didn’t hate him this much?

Ray’s skin is uncomfortably clammy, and his pulse is dangerously rapid but steady. A quick examination of his pupils shows no signs of a concussion, but he certainly looks pale. “Hey, Cap’n...kinda...dizzy…” There’s no warning before he’s throwing up—Rip stifles the wounded noise that threatens to escape and immediately helps the man sit up, letting him lean against Rip so he doesn’t suffocate on his own vomit. The most worrying part is that Ray is almost certainly throwing up blood as well—Rip clutches the superhero close, hating himself for digging his fingers into Ray’s injury when said superhero looks like he’s about to close his eyes. There’s no guarantee that if Ray closes his eyes he’s ever going to wake up again.

“Ray, listen to me. Eyes on _me_ . You _have_ to stay awake, understand? For me, for everyone else on the Waverider. We—I need you. You _must_ keep your eyes open.” Ray nods, but his eyelids droop and Rip raises his voice a bit more. “You wanted to visit the zoo with all of us, correct? Well, I promise you that all nine of us will go on a trip to whichever zoo you want. You said your favourite animal was the—“

“—kangaroos,” Ray supplies, forcing his eyes open, and Rip’s breath whooshes out in sudden, abject relief. “when...when we get back...don’ eat my cereal,” he adds petutantly, and Rip wants to laugh but he ends up letting out a wrecked sob in the end. Ray looks alarmed at that and a wet laugh spills from the Captain as he presses a kiss to the man’s temple. 

“I won’t. I promise I won’t. Nobody will. When you’re better, we’ll all go to 2017 and get more of your cereal, okay? Straight from the shelf, the good kind. I know how much you hate the fabricated type.” 

“Promise?” Ray asks sleepily, and Rip’s heart clenches as Sara sweeps into the clearing, face slicked with blood but eyes just as determined as usual.

“I promise, Raymond. Now you have to cooperate with me, alright? If you want to go to the zoo you have to _work with me_ .” Ray gives a listless nod and between the three of them they manage to get Ray onto the ship—Mick takes it from there, scooping Ray into his arms and taking off towards the medbay, and all Rip can feel is fear. Fear, fear that it’s too late, that despite _everything_ he’d end up losing another person that he loved, that the promises he’d made would never be fulfilled. God, he’s _terrified_ —a second sob builds in his throat and he slams a hand over his own mouth to silence himself, but luckily none of his team hear. 

He still can’t get that image out of his head—Raymond’s broken form laying listlessly in a pool of his own blood, streaked with grime and sweat, looking _dead_. God, he doesn’t even want to think about what would have happened if Rip hadn’t noticed his disappearance—

Luckily they’re all too busy fussing over Ray to notice his distress—Rip steps back, back, back and away—he steals one more glance at Ray’s limp form in the medical chair, turns tail and _runs_. 

—

“Captain Hunter, you asked to be informed when Dr. Palmer woke up. It is currently 3.11am.”

Rip jerks upwards instantly—he hadn’t really been sleeping anyways— and swings his legs over the side of his bed, taking three steps towards the door before reality crashes his party unpleasantly. Would Ray really _want_ to see him? The fuck-up Captain that had sent him on a suicide mission?

He doesn’t have much of a choice, though—as Captain, it’s his duty to make sure all members of his team are safe. He steels himself and stalks to the infirmary, inhaling and exhaling slowly. _Don’t_ _get angry,_ he reminds himself fiercely, blowing his cheeks out in a huff. _It isn’t Ray’s fault he was injured._

The medbay is dark, but the entire team is here, dozing by Ray’s bedside. Okay, maybe _dozing_ might be a lie—they’re all awake and _already_ checking up on Ray. The man himself looks fine—a little peaky, maybe, but overall fine. The ice block situated in Rip’s gut hasn’t melted yet, though—Rip quietly turns away to leave when the _whoosh_ of something cutting through the air forces his instincts to kick in and he stares in shock as a knife embeds itself deeply in the wall where his head had been. Before he can react or try to enforce the _no weapons_ rule, he’s being slammed against the wall—his head is _ringing_ but he abruptly stills when a knife settles against his throat, the cutting edge resting on his jugular. 

“What the _hell,_ Rip?” Sara snaps, fiery anger dancing in her eyes—he sneaks a glance at the rest of the team and feels his heart sink at the furious looks they’re shooting him. Mick is bristling at him and even usually-stoic Leonard is giving him a glare reserved for his enemies; Carter’s frown and Jax’s protective stare are unsettling on their own and Kendra and Martin just look disappointed, but it’s Ray’s hurt puppy-dog look that hurts the most. “Where the _fuck_ did you go? Already planning the next trip while Ray was here dying?”

Anger rears its ugly head and he finds himself snapping back without so much as a wince when the knife’s edge cuts into his neck. Leonard just looks surprised someone would be stupid enough to talk with a knife to their throat, but Rip doesn’t care, _can’t_ care. “For your information, I came here to check on him because I _care!_ Do you really think I would have come back at all if I didn’t? And, unless it slipped your mind, _I_ was the one who kept him alive in the first bloody place!”

“You ran _away!”_ Sara accuses, but she does pull the knife back. “One of our own was _hurt,_ Rip! We stick together! We don’t hightail it after the mission’s done!” 

“I _know_ that!” He cries, biting back the shuddering sob that crawls up his throat—his vision is blurry with tears but he just glares at the table, unwilling to admit his weakness. “I just—God, I wasn’t _thinking,_ I—I thought I was going to lose someone else, someone important to me, someone I—“ he stops himself before he can damn himself with his own words. _Someone I love._ “Yes, I ran. Yes, you can hate me for that. I was...I was foolish, I was impudent, I was—“

“Afraid,” Ray finishes gently, and beckons him over—Rip stumbles closer, feeling impossibly lost as the billionaire pulls him down into a tight hug, tucking sweaty strands of his hair behind his ear. ”It’s okay, Rip. The memories are still a little hazy, but I saw...how much you cared. I _know_ you care, even though you’re crappy at showing it.” He casts a stern look at the rest of the team and Rip almost laughs at the way they all automatically curl in on themselves at the disapproval in Ray’s gaze, but the sound comes out as a soft whimper. “You don’t have to explain yourself, okay? Shh...it’s okay to be scared. No one here blames you. Shh…”

And the dam breaks.

Rip spends the next ten minutes sobbing silently into Ray’s shoulder, little hitched, choked gasps emanating from him—the sound is hollow, forgotten, as if he hasn’t had the chance to let all his feelings out in a very long time. He’d thought Ray would die. He’d thought that he would lose his family _again,_ had thought he’d be alone _again_ ; had known he wouldn’t have had the strength to keep going, that losing any of his loved ones would have broken him for good. He confesses it all to Ray, who lets him talk but doesn’t take his bullshit, who doesn’t let him wallow in his own turmoiling emotions, and at some point the rest of the team had dogpiled on top of him in apology and refused to get off.

All in all, not one of his better days, but then Ray beams at him brightly and it’s like looking at the sun, and Rip thinks they’ll be okay.

**Kendra**

The dungeon is cold.

“How terribly cliché.” He grumbles to himself with a huff, only for his grumpy words to elict a soft giggle from the woman at his side. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Kendra agrees good-naturedly as she leans against his chest for warmth—the guards had been smart enough to frisk them both for any weapons and had even somehow managed to find the twin Swiss Army knives he kept in the soles of his shoes, but had chained them up next to each other. “You’d think someone with Savage’s experience would go for...I don’t know, a hidden tower like Rapunzel’s. Get creative.” 

“I doubt your hair is long enough for that,” Rip points out dryly as he works at the handcuffs as subtly as he can—he doesn’t have a lockpick, but he had found a stray piece of flattened metal on the floor he fully intends to make use of. Unfortunately, he has to keep waiting for the guards to get bored and start up a conversation so the sounds of clanking metal doesn’t get their attention. One guard moves away due to a disturbance in a cell further away and Rip pushes the metal strip into the locking mechanism after feeling along it so he doesn’t make a mistake, gritting his teeth as he does so—the cuffs are tight and chafe against his skin brutally, making it harder for him to twist his wrists to do it. If this doesn’t work out he’ll just have to use his next best alternative, his two thumbs.

He’s already told Kendra to just stay put—no point in her possibly injuring herself as well since _someone_ is going to have to shoot their way out of here, and she isn’t that well-versed in escape techniques anyways. He’d honestly just stay put and wait patiently for rescue if he was alone, but too much could go wrong if they waited—Savage could get impatient, or they’d be dragged off individually to be interrogated, or the guards could decide they wanted to have a little _fun_ with them before they were filed for execution. Too risky—he isn’t willing to subject Kendra to that kind of torture. 

Depressing the spring-loaded pawl takes a bit of time, only because of how awkwardly he’s positioned. Said pawl normally locks into the teeth of the outside of the cuff and allows the free arm of the cuff to move in only one singular direction, meaning the cuff can only be tightened but not loosened. With a little effort, depressing the pawl releases it and Rip grunts as he pulls his wrist from the open locking mechanism. The skin there is red-raw and bloody, but he pays no attention to it as he works on the other side, sliding the shim up against the teeth of the cuff carefully. He’s never liked using this method to get out of handcuffs, seeing as failure to get it in one try would just tighten the locking mechanism and make it harder for him to dislocate his thumbs afterwards, but needs must. Tightening the cuff one notch and pushing the shim forwards slowly, he sighs in relief as the handcuff clicks open easily. 

They only have a matter of moments before someone looks into their cell and sees that he’s working on Kendra’s restraints—she hisses a little when the cuffs click open two minutes later, but her wrists look fine besides a little bruising. “Kendra, do as I tell you to. Alright? The guards are most likely under strict orders to keep _you_ alive, in specifics. Just pretend to be unconscious and I’ll shout for help, and when they approach we _have_ to take them down. We won’t get a second shot at this,” he warns, and Kendra’s eyes blaze as she nods firmly back. It barely takes a minute before two guards come running into the cell at his call for help—they exchange skeptical looks, but hurry forwards once Rip shifts away from her, giving the guards space to advance. 

One of them is crouched between Kendra and him while the other is standing over the demigoddess—Rip locks gazes with her and propels himself up and towards the first guard, his elbow slamming into the man’s nose, breaking it and turning the movement into a neat flip while she twists her body around in a sweeping kick that hooks around the second one’s ankles and knocks their feet from under them. She slams her foot into the downed man’s face with little remorse and turns to face him, grinning at the look on his face. “I _am_ a four-thousand year-old hawk goddess, you know,” she says casually, like they’re talking about the weather as Rip smirks back. 

“If I hadn’t already been aware of it beforehand, _that_ would certainly have opened my eyes in no time at all, I assure you.” He hunkers down over the first guard, meticulously searching them for any keys on their person before stripping them carefully. “Keep ahold of any keys you may find, take their weapons and put on their clothes. We need to blend in as much as we can so we don’t draw any suspicion. The less blood is spilled, the less likely our disappearances will be noticed.” 

“We can’t leave them alive, can we? They’ll start yelling for help the moment they wake up.” Kendra looks vaguely sick at the idea of murder, but steels herself nonetheless as Rip nods carefully, pulling his own clothes off. 

“The blood might be a problem, but I’m sure any guards on patrol won’t stop to examine the bodies for a while as long as we try and minimise the amount of blood lost. If you’re not comfortable with…” he falters as she pulls out the second guard’s knife and hesitates for a brief moment before crouching down and slitting the man’s throat. Scarlet instantly gushes from the wound but she doesn’t flinch, and he abruptly remembers that for all of Kendra’s compassion and cheerfulness and mercifulness, she had been a contract killer in one lifetime, a rogue desperado in a few and a warrior in all of them. 

“I don’t...I’m not a fan of murder, but this is one of Savage’s men. That doesn’t make it better, but we need to get back to the team before they storm the place in one piece and they would probably have died anyway once Savage realises we managed to get one over them.” He pauses, not saying anything as his own blade whispers over the first guard’s throat as well, wondering whether he should say anything before straightening, stepping forwards and tentatively letting a comforting hand settle on her shoulder. He’s never been a feelings person, but he forces down the natural uncomfortableness that wells up in his gut. Kendra is worth it.

“You’re a good person, Kendra, and killing never comes easily to good people. For what it’s worth, you happen to be one of the very few people I would trust with my life, and that’s not because you’re capable of it. It’s because you’re family.” She looks up at him, then, and the brilliant smile she rewards him with is worth any discomfort he’d felt in attempting to reach out to her. 

“Thanks, Rip. Now let’s get out of here. I feel like I could eat a horse.”

“ _Just_ a horse? I feel like I could out-eat Mick right now.” He replies playfully, the mood lightening several shades as they undress and pull on the guards’ stiff outfits while exchanging soft banter. Thankfully they aren’t in a particularly sexist part of history, so female guards, while rare, _do_ exist. He glances to Kendra for directions as they traverse the halls carefully—he’d been unconscious when entering the place, but Kendra’s memory is thankfully adept enough to remember the twists and turns of this blasted place. 

“I think that’s where they put our weapons,” she nods to an unobtrusive door on the far right of the hallway from where they stand in the middle of a crossroads. “but the exit’s on our left. You didn’t bring your revolver, did you?”

“No, because unlike _some_ of you I do at least _try_ to adhere to one of the most pertinent rules of time travel.” Ignoring her rolled eyes, he peeks around the left corner and sees four guards standing by the exit. “Our weapons aren’t particularly important right now. I say we go directly to the exit, if that’s alright with you?” She nods and they set off calmly, strolling down the hallway. A guard glances up at them, but doesn’t react and he lets out an inaudible sigh of relief. This, for once, isn’t going horribly. Maybe they’ll even get out of here without—

The alarms go off and he curses silently under his breath. _Good job, Rip. You jinxed it_ , he chastises himself as they keep walking—Kendra stiffens by his side and that’s the only indication he gets that something’s wrong. 

“Oi, yeh two. Ah don’t think there’s a _bitch_ posted to this wing,” one heavyset man sneers as the rest get up to circle around them. Scratch what he said about sexism not being rampant in this part of history. Rip glances meaningfully to Kendra—they don’t have time to hash this out. Soon, they’ll be identified and things will go down faster than they can gain control of the situation. 

Rip steps forward, levelling a cold glare at the man, and smirks inwardly when the guard shrinks back slightly at the intimidating look. “Are you _questioning_ my companion and I?” He queries tetchily, looking down his nose in haughty disgust at the group. “Would you like for this to get back to the boss? You _do_ know we’re higher-ranked than you _filth_ , correct?”

His educated guess pays off—the two cowardly-looking ones at the back share a nervous look. He’d suspected that Savage would have set more important guards to watch them, and the silver trim on their uniforms isn’t apparent on this group’s. 

“Hey, Jaeran...we don’t want to pick a fight with them,” the one with bushy eyebrows advises in perfect English, looking between Rip and Kendra like they’re going to launch a blow or something along those lines, but ‘Jaeran’ ignores it and puffs up, mimicking a proud peacock. 

“Yeh think that just because yer ranked higher means yeh _better_ than us?” 

“Yes, _obviously_ ,” Rip sighs in annoyed vexation, looking at the idiot like he’s stupid, and Jaeran fumes in furious silence, unable to comeback to that. “Now, get out of our way or we’ll be having _words_ with your supervisors.”

The two at the back are the first to scamper off with their tails between their legs, and the second-last man backs away carefully, the three returning back to their post. Jaeran glares at them, apparently thinking something over carefully, something Rip hadn’t known he’d had sufficient braincells to do. “Well...Ah’m just doin’ my job, innit? Yeh can show me where yer going. Ah’ll be yer _bodyguard_.” The man leers at Kendra, but Rip just nods dismissively, already turning away and nodding to her genially. 

“Go right ahead, but if the boss wants to find out why you’re not staying at your post...on your head be it.” Rip sets off on a brisk pace, Kendra next to him, leaving the persistent man to trail behind them. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Rip.”

“I hope I do too,” Rip mutters in reply as they turn two corners with Kendra’s silent guidance. The third hallway is empty and Rip swings around to plant a fist directly in Jaeran’s face the moment he decides it’s all clear. The punch connects with the underside of the man’s jaw and there’s a sickening _crunch_ before all goes silent, Rip darting forwards to support the unconscious man before he crashes to the floor and draws more attention. “Is that room empty?” At the demigoddess’ nod, he drags the fat lump into the storage closet and leaves him there after duct-taping his mouth shut, followed by his wrists and ankles. 

“Your knuckles…” he glances down at his throbbing hand and winces half-heartedly at the swollen, disfigured fingers he’s sporting, but shakes his head to clear the slight headache. It’s almost certainly broken, but it isn’t a priority right now.

“It’s fine. Gideon will fix me up within moments. We just need to get back on the ship before the other three come to find their friend.” The rest of their unfortunate little adventure passes by in no time—the Waverider is parked right outside, his team already all dressed-up and ready to blow the building to bits if need be. As it is, he simply gives them a quick once-over of what had happened and makes his way to the medical bay at Gideon’s prompting, Kendra by his side, the rest of the team tagging along behind them after Ray had insisted upon their having company. 

The hawk goddess’ presence is strangely soothing—maybe he’s gotten used to her being there after spending a day locked up together, or maybe he’s always been at ease when she’s around. There had only been two—well, three—other people whose presence alone could settle the ongoing clash in his mind, and those three people had been Miranda, Jonas and Gideon, one of which was still here but couldn’t interact with him physically. 

Kendra _could_ , though, and he only shivers slightly when she takes his hand in hers, not commenting on her apparent need for physical comforts. The medbay’s lights flicker on when they enter, and he can feel himself relaxing at the mundaneity of it all—the Waverider has always been his home, and that feeling had only been amplified whenever Miranda and Jonas came to stay with him for a while and has lingered for good ever since his team had come onboard. He hadn’t liked sharing his safe space with strangers at first, but they’d grown close quickly within the span of months, and calling this place home quickly became the norm among the lot of them, something that had delighted him to no end. 

He _liked_ that he (and Gideon) could provide for the people he’d come to think of as his family, liked that they felt safe and at home here, safe enough that Sara could fall sound asleep on the couch without fear of being attacked, safe enough that Leonard and Mick didn’t feel the need to stash food in hidden spaces or make getaway bags anymore, safe enough that Ray, Martin and Jax could relax and talk about past adventures and hidden hopes and dreams without fear of being judged, safe enough that Carter and Kendra knew that if Savage ever came to hunt them down again, the rest of the team would defend them to their last dying breaths. Oh, they bickered and they fought and argued, and feelings were hurt and bonds tested, but it only ever brought them closer in the end. Somewhere along the way, they had become a _family_ —a childish, broken, makeshift one, but a family nonetheless, and for those of them that had never had anything resembling this or had lost it, they wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

“They’re a handful, aren’t they?” Kendra comments lightly as they look out at their family from where Rip is sat in the medical chair, the blue regeneration field scanning over his raw wrists and broken fingers—Martin and Jax happened to be squabbling over something as usual like petty children with Carter and Ray attempting to mediate the conflict with offers of KitKats and jellybeans while Mick, Sara and Leonard are apparently attempting to have a arm-wrestling competition while on the move and failing miserably (mainly because they insist on tripping each other up)—

And Rip smiles wider than he thinks he’s ever smiled, like a great weight has been taken off his back and only _now_ can he breathe properly again, having been unaware of the added strain beforehand. He’d thought he would never be the same after Miranda and Jonas’ deaths, had thought some essential part of him had died along with him and maybe it _had_ , but this team—this _family_ —has bettered his life in every way possible, in ways he could never have imagined.

“They are. But they’re _ours_ and I wouldn’t give it up for the world,” he agrees, and she smiles back, eyes knowing as she pulls him into a sweet kiss. 

“Neither would I.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda crack-ish but I hope you guys like it :P  
> if y’all want me to expand on this, then drop kudos or a comment down below!!

Extra:

”Did you just kiss _Kendra_?”

“Why the emphasis on my name?” Kendra demands as Jax looks around wildly for confirmation. 

_Well._ The cat’s out of the bag, he supposes, and pulls away from the demigoddess as she and the footballer butt heads, not wanting to come between the bickering pair. Sara snaps her fingers victoriously, as if she’s just figured out a particularly-difficult arithmetic question, or something a little more along the lines of _Sara_ (snogging Cleopatra, sneaking baby penguins on board the ship, successfully assassinating John F. Kennedy, et cetera. _Sara_ things).

“So _she’s_ the one you were fucking before me!” 

Rip sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and does his best not to look at the rest of the team. There’s an answering sigh from Leonard, and the suspicious _whirr_ of what sounds like the Heatgun charging up. “Thank you for that, _Sara.”_ He hisses out through gritted teeth as a throbbing migraine builds behind his eyes. Sara accepts the sarcastic thanks with a pleased grin, and he sighs again, trying to decide whether it’s even worth pointing out that he hasn’t done anything remotely like that with Kendra...at least, not yet, but _they_ don’t need to know that. Maybe if he treats them with the respect they deserve and backs away slowly, like how he would when faced with rabid animals...

“You had sex with my _soulmate?”_ Carter bursts out, and Rip wonders whether it’s too late to pilot the Waverider back to 12 B.C. and strand them all there. Probably. He doesn’t doubt their capacity for survival since they’re all most likely part-cockroach—somehow, they’ll find their way back here and he’ll have to deal with _twice_ the amount of whining. Because they are _children_ and he is apparently running a _daycare_. 

Kendra gives him a waspish, disapproving look that screams ‘See? See what you’ve done because of your inability to assess what normal socially-acceptable standards are?’, and he sputters at her, folding his arms over his chest while the rest duke it out verbally. It’s not _his_ fault everybody on his damned ship seems to come after him one way or another! (Except for Mick, Leonard and Carter, and maybe he should stop listing them in his head before he proves Kendra right...)

“No, I did not.” He says reproachfully in the end, holding a hand up to silence Sara’s predictable interruption. Carter gives him a patronising stare and Rip huffs indignantly at him, folding his arms and levelling him with an unimpressed look. “Excuse me, were you or were you not trying to seduce me on a _mission_ just a week or two ago? You weren’t harping on the whole soulmate thing _then._ ”

“You kissed me _first_.” Carter reminds archly, and Rip drops his face into his hands as the rest of them devolve into childish arguing. There’s no escape. He’s truly going to be stuck with this until he dies, which will probably be tomorrow, of a heart attack that one of these miscreants will undoubtedly cause. 

“Wait, wait—“ Ray says as he raises his hands to halt the conversation-about-to-turn-brawl, all accusing eyes shifting to the poor billionaire, who suddenly looks as if he’s facing down a furious herd of wild oxen. Maybe _Rip_ should go start a farm and keep an ox, far, far away from the Waverider and its crew of idiots. One, or maybe two since he doesn’t want it to get lonely. Do farms keep oxen? He’ll never find out if he doesn’t at least try, right? He thinks he’ll be a fine farmer, considering herding oxen must be far easier than herding these eight buffoons. “He hasn’t kissed _everyone,_ right?”

Everyone pauses and exchanges wary glances, and Rip exhales through his mouth wearily in short-lived relief. _Good._ Now, as long as they don’t find out—

“He’s kissed me, though,” Ray helpfully includes with a sunny smile, and everything goes to _shite._

“Me too!” Jax pipes up, followed by Leonard and Mick’s grudging nods of affirmation, and then silence reigns once more as his team turn slowly to eye Martin with what looks like dawning realisation. Rip waves his hands wildly behind Martin, maybe trying to sign that he should keep his mouth shut, maybe just as a cry for help—

“Captain Hunter hasn’t kissed me.” _Thank heavens for Martin._ Rip’s shoulders sag and he nods at the other man in gratitude, reminding himself to offer the professor a drink later, seeing as he’s definitely going to do his best to drink himself into unconsciousness later so he can forget everything about today. “However, I have kissed _him.”_

_Bollocks._

“It was only on the forehead!” He cries, trying to lessen the sudden build-up of tension, but it’s for naught. Mick lets out a terrifying growl and seizes his arm—Rip yelps in surprise as he falls backwards, but Leonard catches him easily and pulls the medical cuff off his wrist, hauling him away from the rest of the team possessively. He tries to speak but a decisive glint in Sara’s eyes makes him duck instead despite himself—and for good reason, too, seeing as Mick hadn’t dodged in time and a throwing star had clipped his ear cleanly. 

“Sara!” He chides loudly, quickly staggering to his feet and backing away as fast as he can so as to get out of the firing range. “No weapons in the medbay!”

“You’re _mine_ ,” the assassin snarls, completely ignoring his words as she pulls a wicked-looking dagger from her boot and advances on Leonard, who’s pulling out his own weapon in retaliation. Jax drags him out of the way, all of them used to the trio’s strange way of settling disputes—Leonard blasts the wall behind Sara and frost spreads over it instantly, making Rip groan in abject annoyance. 

“I’m _no_ one’s!” He protests hotly, but Mick gives him a seething glare and he subsides reluctantly, allowing Kendra to pat him on the back in amused reassurance. “The three of you…” Rip hesitates as they look at him, obviously anticipating another complaint. His shoulders slump tiredly, not wanting to press the matter anymore. “if you must tussle with each other like little children, do it in the brig.” 

Mick shares a look with Leonard that lasts for fifteen seconds before the former turns to the blonde, huffing out a short breath. “We’ll settle this later, Lance.” 

Sara rolls her eyes somewhat-affectionately, stalking across the room to pick up her dagger and sheathing her weapons once more. “Whatever you say, Mick.” 

“Wow. Rip, you’ve got a future in taming crocodiles,” Jax whispers in the wide-eyed silence, and shrinks back in chastisement two seconds later at the powerful stares being directed at him as Rip nods briskly, turning on his heel to leave before anything _else_ can go wrong. 

“Well, since we’ve settled this, I’ll be taking my leave—“

Fingers curl into the collar of his coat and yank him back against someone’s broad chest—Rip doesn’t quite stumble, but he does give an undignified squeak when arms cross over his torso, preventing him from moving. A flare of mild embarrassment hits him and he stares at the ground with a glare that could melt steel, simply unable to comprehend the sheer unmitigated _gall_ of these people. God, has he really become so soft that he’d allow his team to manhandle him like he’s the rope in a tug-of-war? The Rip Hunter of the past would have blasted offending fingers off just as a _warning_ , and that’s only if he’d been feeling particularly merciful. It had been his friendship, and later relationship, with Miranda that had softened him to the point he no longer jerked away from unexpected contact and the sardonic sass he had developed due to his hard life on the streets tamed.

He doesn’t know if he’s ashamed of his apparent weaknesses or if he’s only irritated by the fact that he’s only realised it now. He’s grown entirely too fond of these people and it’s a _weakness_ , he knows, a vulnerability, but it’s also what gives him strength, the will to keep going even when all hope seems lost.

_And_ they’ve made him a sappy bastard. There’s that, too.

Maybe he’s just annoyed that he doesn’t regret it at all. 

“You’re staying right here until we figure out what’s happening.” Carter commands calmly, as if he’s the _Captain_ —Rip takes great pleasure in stomping on the hawk god’s foot none-too-gently and slipping out of Carter’s arms easily, neatly pivoting on one foot to grab ahold of Carter’s wrists and wrench them to the latter’s sides. Not behind his back—after all, Carter’s still on his team and he doesn’t want to end up breaking any bones. He smiles serenely up at the man, a dangerous, shark-like grin with far too many teeth on display, and he hears Kendra suck in a sudden breath next to him. He hadn’t been a Time Master for nothing, and one of the best at that. 

“Asking nicely would have been just as splendid and _certainly_ would have seen you gaining better results, Carter. Please refrain from manhandling me...unless I happen to ask for it.” 

There’s silence for a few seconds, in which Rip takes the time to drop the demigod’s wrists and moves a step back, and then Leonard breaks the silence with a sharp exhale. “Tell me I’m not the only one who found that...really hot.” 

“You normally have such an extensive vocabulary. Cat got your tongue?” Martin jabs back peacefully, and the criminal shakes his head as if to clear it. 

“No, but after _that_ display I wouldn’t mind if Hunter got it.” 

“ _Yeah…_ ” Ray breathes in what sounds like shocked awe before he swallows tightly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t hook up with men often, if at all, but...damn, you could get it, Rip.”

Carter has been still for the last minute and Rip eyes him somewhat worriedly, wondering if he’d taken his demonstration too far. Sara assaulted people on a daily basis and even the more docile members of his crew did get violent occasionally (watching Martin break a chair over a thug’s head had been the highlight of his _week_ ), but Rip tries his best to hold himself to a higher standard. 

He _was_ the Captain, after all, and setting bad examples simply wouldn’t do—he couldn’t be running amok around the timelines, but something more animalistic had taken him over when Carter had grabbed him, something that wanted to establish himself as someone not to be messed with. He _did_ relinquish his control occasionally, seeing as Mick never bottomed for anyone and Leonard had wanted ‘the Great Rip Hunter’ at his mercy a few times (not to mention the time he’d found Sara humming a jaunty tone while fabricating a strap-on—things had swiftly derailed from there), but other than that he generally never submitted to anybody that hadn’t first earned it. Not that he was saying Carter hadn’t earned it, but pushing and pulling at him like a mere shopping mall door wasn’t something his pride would let slide. 

“Are you...alright?” He inquires carefully, lifting a hand and flattening it against the demigod’s ribcage in slight concern. Had he crossed a line? “Did I go overboard? Carter— _“_

Rip barely manages to get the name out before he’s being shoved against the table and kissed for all he’s worth—Jax whistles appreciatively behind them but he’s quickly lost in the addictive sensation of Carter’s insistent lips on his, hot and demanding, sealing them together. A tongue slips into his mouth and he moans at the _heat_ pooling in his groin, unable to do anything but push back against the bruising kiss, determined to give as good as he gets. Carter’s hand slides between his legs and Rip shivers as he parts his thighs eagerly, mouth falling open in an appreciative moan that the hawk god silences swiftly with his own. Their bodies move in effortless synchronisation and it’s only the need for oxygen that makes him push lightly at Carter’s chest, the taller letting up instantly. “Sorry, sorry. You just…you need to spar with me more often. I want to see that side of you, your warrior side. It’s...quite breath-taking.”

All eyes are on the pair of them, but Rip can’t spare a thought for it, instead continuing to breathe evenly in an attempt to regulate his breathing rate, his hips twitching slightly at the lingering dregs of arousal—his already-tousled hair is even more mussed by now and he feels like his lips have somehow actually _bruised_ from the force of it all. He’s sure he looks like a slut and maybe he is, but sudden shyness colors his cheeks darkly as he glances up at the rest of them, trying to gauge their reactions—Sara’s eyes narrow and Rip jerks at the heated look, but Ray is already at his side, his body curving over Rip’s; protectively or possessively he doesn’t know, not that he _wants_ to know.

“Jeez, Rip...you’re beautiful.” He looks up sharply at that, not quite willing to believe he’d actually heard those words, but Ray’s genuine hazel eyes bore into his, not one trace of a lie in them. He can’t help but shake his head in befuddled denial, pulling away a little at the perceived untruth. Nobody’s ever called him beautiful before—handsome and variations of that has been used many times, by both Miranda and random strangers he passed by in different eras, but _beautiful_? He certainly hasn’t heard that one before. 

A hand grips his thigh firmly and a sharp noise tears itself from his throat in surprise, unable to look away from Ray as the billionaire leans closer, gaze fixated on Rip’s eyes. He tries to close them (anything to get away from that all-too-familiar _look_ in Ray’s eyes—that look comes with far too many strings attached; declarations of love, promises of commitment. He’s only seen that look in one other person’s eyes before, and moments later she’d sworn to stay by his side for as long as he wanted her there, and eight years later she had broken that promise, had left him _alone_ even though she _swore_ never to do that, and isn’t it just ironic that she’d sworn on her life?), but a gentle thumb strokes his cheekbone to coax him to keep them open—as if he’s been hypnotised, Rip does so obediently, looking up at Ray through lowered lashes, and a jolt shudders through the spellbound latter as if just the sight of Rip’s eyes has electrified him somehow. And why would it? He admits that it’s a pretty color, the exact shade of scuffed, shining uncut emeralds, but it’s nothing to be in _awe_ of.

“You _are_ . Maybe you don’t see it now, but you will _soon_.” The solemn promise in Ray’s voice makes him startle slightly, but the hand on his thigh keeps him from going anyway even though they’re both aware of how easily he could get himself out of this position, especially after his little display with Carter as his unknowing test subject.

“So are we gonna fuck in the medbay or what?” Mick breaks the silence, shattering the little spell he and Ray had been under—Ray hesitates momentarily before smiling down at him, and Rip returns the smile, albeit with a much smaller one as he straightens once more. Sara, for one, looks like she’d devour him if given the chance, Kendra has the same passionate flame in her eyes that she’d had when slitting Savage guards’ throats and even relatively-innocent Jax looks utterly _undone_ by their fooling around, but at least nobody seems like they’re going to pounce on him for another kiss. _Yet_. 

“The whole point of the medbay is to have a sanitary space to treat wounds safely and make sure they don’t get infected, Mr. Rory,” he points out calmly, smiling faintly at the disappointed looks he receives. They really do act like children, sometimes. It’s both endearing and frustrating, or interchangeable depending on the situation. “Besides, the surfaces here aren’t exactly comfortable for lying down on.”

Mick grunts, giving the room a lazy once-over before shrugging lightly. “I could make it work,” he replies with a smirk, and Rip acknowledges the point with a half-shrug and a nod. Mick did tend to pick the strangest of places to seek Rip out—so far, he’d cornered Rip in _his own bathroom_ (he’d told Gideon in no uncertain terms not to let anyone in and had promptly given himself a minor stroke when he’d found Mick casually lounging against the sink), the fabricator room (which Rip has to admit had been pretty useful when they’d been in need of handcuffs...for completely arbitrary purposes, of course), the dining table (at 7pm, and Rip had set a personal record since he’d been trying to get the arsonist off before anyone walked in on them), and most memorably, in the middle of a mission in the wardrobe with Martin and Jax right outside the door (that one he’d pettily protested for a good two minutes, but the temptation had been far more powerful than his dignity). 

“I’m sure you could, but the fact remains that the medbay needs to be kept as sanitary as possible, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down on this.”

“Even if we... _persuade_ you?” Leonard asks, blue eyes filled with cool interest—Rip watches his Adam’s apple bob and purses his lips, knowing the movement has already been caught. He shouldn’t encourage this blatant rulebreaking. He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t…_

“How would you go about doing _that,_ Mr. Snart?” He queries anyways, and internally groans at himself. Damn libido, always getting in his way when he’s trying to make a statement. Leonard’s eyes light up, but it’s Sara who talks over him triumphantly, jabbing his chest with a finger.

“So you _did_ fuck Mick and Len! I’ve suspected it since I saw Mick leaving your room, but I thought he might’ve just been returning that really cool sapphire he stole from one of your old books.”

“Yes, _alright,_ I...wait— _what_ sapphire?”

“Well...about that…” Mick starts, and Rip turns incredulous eyes upon him. 

“You stole _what_ ?” He doesn’t get a response, but that in itself is already an answer—he throws his hands in the air in exasperation, pacing the floor angrily. “Did you happen to steal the _cursed_ sapphire in a book from the ninth century that had a bloody NOTE on it that _clearly_ states ‘do not open lest you want Armageddon to commence’? A tome I’ve partially translated that, by the way, basically amounts to saying that anyone who touches it with their bare hands will release an interdimensional _demon_ that has the ability to travel through time and space as it pleases, causing untold amounts of chaos and destruction wherever it goes _? And_ , on the off-chance that you _did_ touch it with your bare hands, did it begin to float, glow and then disappear into thin air?”

Mick gives him a bland nod and Rip sighs for the fourth time today, fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly as he struggles to find any words to say that’ll appropriately represent the amount of fury he feels. The cupboard is looking like an increasingly-attractive place to bash his skull into. Maybe the oxen on his future farm would do that for him, if he asks nicely. Perhaps he could even have a sheepdog or a border collie to help him round up the herd. Dogs are pretty neat, he thinks, and maybe he can train it to _bite Mick’s hands off_ if they ever meet. Maybe _then_ he’ll stop touching cursed objects and setting off their respective traps. He can only hope. 

“Great. Just bloody great. I want you to know that I’m absolutely furious,” he adds quickly, just in case they can’t divine that from his expression. “I am _fuming_ inside. I half-want to rip your head off with my bare hands. But you know what? I’m too tired for that right now. Give me four hours and caffeine and I’ll follow up on that threat, but as for right now, get over here and _kiss me like you mean it_ or I will throw you out the airlock and kiss your partner instead.” 

The roundabout threat makes Mick blink in surprise, but there’s a definite subdued air about him as he bends down to kiss Rip. The ex-Time Master exhales blissfully against Mick’s mouth, still a little pissed about the demon, but as far as he’s concerned, they’ll cross that bridge when the bridge collapses and a portal opens up beneath their feet and drags them into the depths of Tartarus, seeing as that’s what’s usually par for the course. For now, he’ll just settle for kissing the cause of the problem so hard he’ll be thinking of no one _but_ Rip for the next few months, or at least until the next supernatural creature tries to kill them. It seems fair enough. 

“Good grief, I would be so much angrier if you weren’t such a darned good kisser,” he mutters sourly once they part, allowing Mick to clutch him close, the criminal’s chest rumbling with deep laughter. “as it is... you’d best be willing to make it up to me.” The pyromaniac’s lips twitch as he nods, a lopsided smirk on his face. 

“Not in the medbay?”

“You’re learning,” Rip muses thoughtfully, earning him a rough swat on the ass. Jax narrows his eyes at them indignantly, stepping closer to make sure he won’t be left out.

“What are the rest of us, furniture?”

“You’d best know now that I have neither the stamina nor the willpower to indulge all of you,” he says tiredly, rubbing his face, but Sara just snickers playfully at his expense, patting him in a conciliatory manner.

“You don’t have to do anything, old man. Just lie back and let the experts handle this.”

“If you lot are the experts, then the world is truly doomed. You have the sexual stamina of _rabbits_ in heat,” he deadpans bluntly as Mick scoops him up and sets off down the corridor in a bridal position. Rip doesn’t even bother arguing or trying to get down from the humiliating position he’s stuck in—he just casts a longing gaze at the ceiling, hoping someone will answer his prayers and send down a plague or something of the sort. Honestly, sometimes he wonders whether humanity requires a second flood. He should’ve just let that damned sprite use his death as a sacrifice to power its ridiculous ritual to summon Jormungandr at Taulas of Menorca. “A little eager, don’t you think?” He questions dryly, only to earn a wry tilt of the lips from Martin. 

“You _did_ say, and I quote…”

“No.” He interrupts swiftly. “No, no quotes. _Please_.”

“Fucking idiots, the lot of you,” Mick huffs, but even _he’s_ smiling slightly, and Rip looks back at the rest of his team, his family—Sara has Jax in a chokehold, Kendra and Carter are...doing _something_ with their tongues (well, four thousand years of experience has to have _some_ benefits, right?), Martin is lecturing Ray on space-time physics while the latter bounces along next to Leonard, who’s doing his best to pretend he’s anywhere but here—and sighs, his lips quirking up reluctantly. 

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys liked this! i know it was kinda cracky, but tbh the whole s1 crew is majorly cracky anyways so—
> 
> i MIGHT be adding one more chapter in the future that’s either pure smut or just some bs involving all of them, so stay tuned! i gotta admit, the s1 crew has my heart even though amaya, ava & the rest are pretty cool too. idk, i just feel like the s1 crew vibed a lot and i especially liked leonard & rip! ksjdks guess i’m just weak for thieves?? 
> 
> anyways, drop a kudos or comment or even a bookmark and make sure to pop in every once in a while since i might be adding onto this fandom a little bit more :)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in like two days and I’ve only read over it twice for errors, so if you catch any feel free to point it out! I wrote this mostly to tide me over while I overcome my writer’s block and because I’ve been having a hard time in general and writing as Rip calms me down for some reason—maybe it’s his British insults. Always funny.
> 
> This work was greatly inspired by skyline, who wrote the amazing fanfiction Good Things Don’t Make Sense Anyhow. I was extremely entertained by their Rip and decided to write something similar but with all of the team (perhaps so they can have an orgy?? who knows not me) ;) Please check their fanfiction out in the link I’ve provided!
> 
> I’ll be adding onto this to write one last chapter where they all figure out Rip has been fucking around with all of them (that’ll be interesting...) so stay tuned for more updates sometime next week or so! 
> 
> As always, constructive criticism and encouragement (generally any kind of useful feedback) is always appreciated! :) I also have to mention that this is literally the first (1) time I’ve written straight sex before so PLEASE don’t murder me oh my god, I’m a bisexual human catastrophe myself (if that’s even relevant) so—


End file.
